


If You Love Me Let Me Know

by redphlox



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, SoMa - Freeform, jealous!soul: the trilogy, soulxmaka - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-16 20:50:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5840521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redphlox/pseuds/redphlox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When another weapon asks Maka out on a date, Soul has to work through his own feelings of jealousy and loyalty as he watches the one he loves slipping away. But is it really too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. if you love me

**Author's Note:**

> and so begins Jealous!Soul: the trilogy! A huge shout out to ProMa, Lunar, Ash, and Bendy for betaing.

A pigtail dangles into view first on the other side of his doorway, at the edge of his vision, followed by a groomed brow and the delicate curve of a rosy cheek. She’s not as inconspicuous as she thinks. But then again, he doesn't need to see scarred fingers curling around the doorframe or half of a face peering into his room to know it’s Maka. He feels her like a sixth sense.

She pauses, blinking once, twice ---

“Hey, Soul?” She is the harmony of silence. “I’m getting ready for my date. Can you help me curl my hair?”

Snark is his armor: “Does this look like a hair salon to you?”

Determined not to look into her pleading green eyes, he abandons plucking at strings that have calloused the pads of his fingers to wave around his room, pointing out his posters and weird knickknacks. Certainly his acoustic guitar is not as interesting as Maka, but he’s invested an entire week of attention to it since learning of her unexpected curiosity about dating. While redirecting his energy to ignoring the envy gnawing at his insides may not be the greatest coping mechanism, it’s a marker of his personal growth that he hasn’t sought comfort in lazing around, snarling bitterly and sulking.

“ _Please_?” The way she enunciates these words breaks his will.

“Bring your thingy,” he relents, setting the guitar aside and wringing his hands in preparation for handling stick straight golden hair. Surely she absorbs sunlight like a flower, and he only hopes he’s worthy of touching such heaven.

Flashing a vibrant smile, she vanishes down the hallway as quickly as she appeared, socks muffling her footfalls. “It's called a curling iron!”

And like always, he’s left with the aftershock of both boxing away his feelings and making space for them. Little moments like these highlight how undeniably, incurably, and rampant his feelings for Maka have grown. Every gentle word and soft look she gifts him only nurtures the longing he perpetually fails to smother.

Envy and regret might corrupt him.

Many times has the idea crept into his mind of sabotaging her plans. Faking an injury would undoubtedly have her fielding a call to cancel the date, especially if vomit and an inhumanly high fever put him out of commission. However, praying for illness and wishing the worst upon himself spells out ‘problematic’ for both him and Maka. Not to mention that any form of interference with her happiness would be an unforgivable act of manipulation, the pinnacle of dishonesty.

So he bites his tongue and quiets his jealousy by offering his support, albeit masked in a semi-translucent layer of reluctance. Genuine happiness isn’t hard to feign when it’s for Maka - as long as she wants him by her side, he’ll be there, even if he’s not  _the one_.

It’s like chewing glass, swallowing, and pretending that his gums aren’t bleeding and that his chest isn’t raw from housing little shards.

He hears her pattering back. Betrayal is his heart attempting to match the rhythm of her footfalls. Maybe that is just his anxiety levels skyrocketing.

“I’m back,” Maka singsongs, skipping toward him, a tote bag slung over her shoulder.

“If you brought your entire hair collection, you can leave right now,” he says, finally daring to turn and face her openly. Even though there’s nothing visibly different about her – she’s clad in ripped jeans, an oversized shirt, and a bright expression – Soul can’t help but detect a change between their souls. Recently, their link hiccups and its intensity is muted for a reason he can’t pinpoint.

She’s been in a weird headspace lately and he has no idea what she’s thinking.

“You promised,” she reminds, sticking her tongue out at him as she spills the bag’s contents onto his bed. The hot pink curler lands with a subdued  _plop_ , and a rainbow-colored assortment of hair ties clashes with his blue sheets. Multiple bottles of full hair products with seals leave Soul thinking that she recently purchased them. He inspects the bubbly font of a lime colored container.

“ _Heat protector that leaves your hair shiny and luxurious without the burn_ ’,” he reads. Crinkling his nose is his only response. “Really, Maka? You’ve never seemed interested in this stuff before.”

“I must have caught the hair obsession bug from you,” she jests, motioning him to move over, practically sitting on him when he fails to move. He’s mesmerized by her legs bending and folding as she settles down. “Just because you don’t shower in gel anymore doesn’t mean no one else remembers those days.”

It must be a punishment to be this close to her, to have her asking to be touched.

“Let’s just make it quick,” he says, not wanting to have a hand at helping her leave but also not wanting to hinder her plans.

She undoes her pigtails while Soul tries to disconnect from himself – he’s just her weapon, just a piece of lethally sharp metal that she swings around to slash throats, silence evil, and earn respect. He’s a tool, an instrument -- but she plays him  _so well_ and their souls hum in tune easily.

It’s not fair.

“I was thinking I could go for the 'loose curls' look,” she’s saying, running dexterous fingers through her locks. Soon that will be his privilege. To say that he’s cursed and blessed is a paradox, but reality is cruel.

“Liz probably knows a lot more about this than I do,” he says, and it must come out as frailly as he feels because she pauses in her preening to check on him. Green eyes stare unblinkingly. It doesn’t help that she’s so close he can see himself in her irises, upside down and unhappy.  

“Maybe,” she admits. “But I really wanted your help. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable--” She’s already scooting away from him, and it hurts more than it should. Regret freezing his veins, he reaches out and places a hand on her shoulder.

“Stay,” he says, almost pleads. “I’m just complaining. I want to help.”

The line between her brows is a sure sign that she isn’t convinced.

“Really, Maka. Think I’d miss this chance to mess up your hair?”

She softens like ice cream. “Don’t make me look too hideous,” she warns him, a slight smile accompanying an even smaller laugh as she shoves the hair curler at him. It’s like being entrusted with gold, and he’s touched that she turned to him for support.

Vowing not to allow bitter jealousy to rot his bones, he begins separating her hair into sections. It’s not like he’s never played with her hair before – the number of times he’s absentmindedly twirled a hair around his index finger while they’ve cuddled and watched TV is embarrassingly high. And he’s not exactly proud that he takes every opportunity to playfully grab her pigtails whenever she wears them, because she’s steadily moving away from ‘that childish hairstyle,’ as she put it when asked.

But this is different. This time he isn’t wiping away dirt or grime from her scalp after a nasty encounter with a pre-kishin, or teasing her about split ends. She’s trusting him enough to ask for his help, and the more her voice plays on repeat in his mind, the _shittier_ he feels about secretly harboring feelings for her. They’re the exact opposite of platonic. The escalation from “she’s ok I guess” to “I want to kiss her soul” was fatally fast and unexpected – his feelings grew too quickly, and trying to cut them off only intensified their will to flourish.

They’re neither weeds nor vines - they’re a whole garden, and he’s not sure if he should nurture more growth or hack away roots.

The curling iron now heated up, he thinks  _here goes nothing_ and focuses on the first section of honey colored hair.

Maka’s breath hitches and her shoulders quiver when his fingers accidentally brush the nape of her neck. Static buzzes underneath his skin, and he wonders if the same pins-and-needle vibrations are overwhelming her - they are connected, after all.  

“Sorry,” Soul mumbles. “Did I pull your hair?”

“You’re fine,” Maka reassures, wiggling. “I was just surprised.”

Handling a hot hair curler while compartmentalizing gross feelings requires olympic level multitasking skills he didn’t know he lacked. It doesn’t help that his hand is unsteady and that unbridled jealousy has him seeing double.

“You don’t seem excited at all about your date,” he points out, glad that she has her back to him and won’t see him sticking his tongue out as if it will enhance his hair curling abilities.

“I’m nervous... I don’t really know Clay.”

Now’s the chance to ask without seeming like prying, which is what he’s been burning to do since Maka had announced to him during their usual ‘goodnight’ routine that she wouldn’t be joining him for dinner on Saturday night.

“So why’d you say you’d go out with him?” Does he sound casual enough? Treacherous voice cracks didn’t mar his flawless execution of the question.  

“Isn’t that the whole point of dating? To get to know the person and see what you want in a partner?” Her tone genuinely sounds confused, and it’s incredible to Soul that she’s at a loss. He’s used to seeing a confident, assertive Maka. Not that it discounts what she’s going through.

“Wouldn’t know,” he mumbles. It’s the truth. The closest he’s come to being committed is his love-hate relationship with his piano.

“My mama and papa only dated each other for a few months before they found out about me, you know. I just want to make the right choices,” she says. Silence falls around them like heavy drapes. Obviously, her parent did not serve as the best example of a healthy relationship, since their marriage consisted of her papa openly kissing everyone but her mama. To Soul, it seems like Maka is struggling with what her family’s demons could potentially imply for her romantic future.

History tends to repeats itself.

"I just want to find my soul mate," she whispers.

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” he concedes. Part of him wants to cry that they’re already stitched at the soul, that they already know each other more than skin deep, but he’s momentarily mute and his body is a graveyard for the unsaid. He refuses to be an obstacle to Maka finding someone who complements her strength.

“I was just surprised that he asked me out,” she continues. They’re both absolutely still, save for Soul delicately wrapping segments of her hair around the hot metal, and Maka twirling her thumbs in her lap. “He was there for Tsugumi’s birthday party, and we just started talking…and he said he wanted to get to know me. I think he’s really nice.”

Now isn’t the time to chide himself for his crowd-avoiding tendencies. Regret slaps him around – he should have fucking gone to that party, but his discomfort in large gatherings discouraged him from allowing Maka to drag him there, kicking and scowling. This recount of how the date came about answers his questions, but now he’s subconsciously counting his bad luck tallies.

Potentially losing Maka tops anything terrible that has happened to him, and he’s been inches away from being sliced into two at a cathedral. It’s ironic that Clay is also a demon sword.

“Sounds nice,” he says, distracted by the golden waves he’s creating. Maka is ethereal, and he has a hard time accepting that she exists, even if their souls whisper to one another constantly. “Ah, uh… where are you guys going?”

“We’re meeting at the library.”

Soul fails to censor a snort.

“What? He spends a lot of time there!”

“He must be a huge nerd like you,” Soul sniggers, though inwardly he’s waging a war against himself. Of course Maka is interested in a fellow book fanatic and not a reticent, pointy-toothed pessimist.  

“How’s it looking?” she asks, shifting.

For a moment Soul forgets what she’s referring too – he’s so engrossed by cascading waves and golden softness. “S’okay,” he replies. “It’s not exactly curly… but whatever. It’s supposed to make your hair smell like burned toast, right?”

The only thing that saves him from a skull-shattering chop is the fact that he’s armed with a curling iron and is literally clutching the last section of pin-straight hair. Laughing fills the spaces that jealousy and insecurity dug out of him. He doesn’t have to be looking at Maka’s face to know that one corner of her lips is trembling in a failing endeavor to repress giggles while the other is pinned high.

Curling the last section of hair hits him with a strange upsurge of nostalgia. She’s not even gone yet and he already misses her.

“I’m so excited to see,” she says, bouncing off his bed and running down the hall.

She’s gone  _so fast_. He’s a complete idiot for getting sentimental over hair.

A shriek cuts off his thoughts: “IT’S CROOKED!”

“How can that be possible?” he yells back, standing up as if readying himself for a chase that will probably end in chops.

She slides back into his room, pointing at her hair. “The left side of my hair starts to curl higher up, and then on the right, there’s barely anything!”

“Sorry,” he offers, this time successfully withholding cackles. “I can fix it, if you want.”

And he does – after a miniature lecture about symmetry, which she stops after Soul compares her to Kid. When she’s satisfied with her hairdo, she announces that she’s going to change and that she’ll be off soon. She emerges from her room half an hour later, and he already has a tirade of teases to throw at her as she walks out the door when he notices she’s dressed to snap necks.

Short skirts are her favorite, after all.

“I’ll see you in a little bit,” she tells him, hand on the doorknob.

“Wait - you’re walking?”

“Yeah, Soul, I have legs,” she says, and all the sarcasm flies over his head when she sticks out a glorious leg in emphasis. It’s unexpected and his lips part with an audible gasp, low and amazed. Whether playing it off by blowing out a puff of air through his nostrils distracts her or just adds another point against him is unclear – she smooths the skirt over her thighs, which are conditioned thanks to training.

“Wait! I'll take you,” he says too quickly, and when she studies him through narrowed eyelids he tacks on, “I have to run by the library anyway.” It's an unbelievable excuse -- he always says the air smells staler around the building -- but the skepticism contorting her face fades. She seizes his wrist with an excited hand-holding and his attention with a daredevil beam.

“Can we go the long way and take the freeway?”

“You only want me for my motorcycle,” he pretends to gripe. Resilience inspires him to cheer up a little bit. Sometimes he detests that he’s so easily influenced by her.

“Live fast, die cool, right?” she teases, using his own words against him.

Keys jangle in his pocket as they descend the scorching stairs. Even the midsummer sun above their heads seems to be taunting Soul. Each step toward his motorcycle feels like a goodbye. It’s irrational to say the least – they are weapon and meister, nothing more, nothing less. Just because his daydreams insist on reading more into their interactions doesn’t mean it is reality – but what if it is?

Reading between the lines is difficult.

He floors it on the freeway, Maka’s hands flat against his belly, her cheek smooshed against his back. The wind roaring in his ears doesn’t stifle her laughter, nor does it give him an excuse to ignore her pat on the shoulder as a cue for him to drop her off.

All too quickly they’re at the parking garage, Maka asking him if her hair is still curled. He can barely look at her. It feels like he’s giving her away at her wedding. But he takes a long, long breath and says that she looks great, and before she can reply, they’re in front of the water fountain and her date spots them, hurrying over.

“Hey,” Clay greets, trained on Maka. The way his eyes light up disgusts Soul, especially because his neatly ironed button-up shirt and slacks remind him too much of his old life, back when he was just a shell of Soul Evans, Pained Piano Prodigy. Except he never stood tall nor smiled openly, his teeth showing, relaxed and content with himself.

“Hey,” Maka says. Soul can’t look at her. Fear has made his body a home.

It shouldn’t surprise him that Clay has the audacity to flirt with Maka in front of him, but he has to remind himself that he’s the third wheel, the intruder, the extra. “Your hair looks cute.”

“Thanks so much – Soul did it for me, actually!”

How sadistic is it of him to hope this tidbit of information breaks Clay’s confidence?

“See ya later,” he half-snarls half-chokes, slouching because his chest is heavy, so  _heavy_ , his sternum suddenly unsteady like it’s nothing but melting plastic. There is stabbing rawness on either of his sides making him suspect that his ribs are piercing his lungs. Breathing is a challenge. Hands safely tucked into his jean pockets, he pivots on his foot, chin tilted down at the grass he is stomping on because he has zero fucks to give about cutting through a field that’s protected by a ‘please use the sidewalk’ sign. All he cares about is reaching his bike before he crumbles in public.

But he can’t ignore Maka Albarn, who is the embodiment of lightning and fire and soul-pulling  _power_. She says his name and he responds like every atom making up his existence is wired to be beckoned by her -- he glances back, and he doesn’t regret it, not even when her smile jars more of the glass sitting in his chest. She sways an arm in the air, exaggeratingly waving goodbye. Soul appreciates its graceful beauty when his phone rings at ten later that night, jerking him from a weird dream about Maka smiling at a long line from inside a kissing booth.

Groggily, he remembers it was only hours ago when he dropped her off that he daydreamed about what her arm would feel like snaked up his shirt, her mouth on his neck.

He wonders if it’s the same limb she’s talking about:

“Soul? I’m at the hospital – I’m okay! I just broke my arm… can you come get me?”


	2. Let Me

“I’m so happy to see you – scratch my nose for me?”

Never did Soul think he’d be comforted to find Maka propped up in a hospital bed, scathed but alive and reading. Knocking over a nurse and setting a personal record in athletic feats when he had leapt over a gurney are nothing compared to the other things he'd do to be by her side. He sags against the doorframe, lungs bursting at the seams trying to fill with air while she offers him an innocent beam.

It only knocks the wind out of him.

“And can you turn this page for me? I've been reading the same paragraph for fifteen minutes thanks to _this_.”

Hard pink plaster encases the length of her left arm. That much Soul expected from the brief phone conversation that he must have missed ninety percent of in his rush to find matching shoes, because Maka lifts her right wrist and it's also splinted in place.

Soul prepares for a migraine; this is going to be a wild ride from start to finish. “Maka, what the hell happened?”

She blushes vibrantly. “I don't want to talk about it.”

But he's physically and mentally incapable of ignoring the scratch marks marring her skin. Even from a few feet away, it's obvious that she's covered in angry red lines, some zigzagging, some not so deep. The worst one is a slash cutting diagonally across her cheek.

“I'll make a deal with you,” she offers, probably already aware by his aghast expression that he needs answers ASAP. “Scratch my nose and I'll tell you what basically happened. It hurts to move my arms!”

“For someone so lethal, you're really clumsy,” he gripes, padding over. The bed dips under the weight of half his butt cheek as he perches at her bedside. Gently, so as not to irritate the other injuries to her face, he tickles the peak of her nose, and she follows his fingers every time he retracts them.

“SOUL, YOU'RE NOT FUNNY!”

“I have to make this less embarrassing for me,” he snickers, and she understands that this is his way of quelling the worry the situation bubbled. She sighs almost apologetically, lips molded into a thin line as she internally debates how much to reveal.

“I'm okay,” she promises, flaring out her nostrils in an effort to point to where it itches. Soul brushes against her nose lightly until she jerks excitedly. “Right there - yesss, to the left! Thank _Death_.”

“Spill,” he says, determined to coax the truth out. “I did my end of the deal. What happened?”

She looks at him and says evenly, “I fell.”

“I need more details!”

“That’s what happened. I fell. Off a tree branch.”

Taking a sizzling hot frying pan to the face would have been less irritating than hearing this response. Hands aching to clasp her shoulders and shake her, he distracts himself by glancing around. “Did he - did he do something to you?”

“Who? Clay?” Her face is cute when she’s confused. “No, of course he didn’t do anything to me!”

“Then why do you look like you were pushed in front of a train?”

She huffs indignantly, straightening her back and sticking her face near his as if to intimidate him. It would be a blatant lie to say that his heart doesn't stutter, but probably not for the same reasons she wants. Up close, he can almost count her eyelashes, and his fingers twitch to restrain from both pushing her back and pulling her closer.

It's a test of endurance and willpower, a staring contest. Outwardly, he irons his face into stoic perfection - feel nothing, reveal nothing. But he swears his skull is cracking under the pressure of beating Maka Albarn, who is headstrong and refuses to blink. Even if the ground shook and the walls collapsed around them, she would insist on not looking away from him, and this instills hope that maybe his place in her life is more than a weapon for destruction.

The shift isn’t palpable, but it's there - maybe it's always been there, dividing and connecting them. Faint eyelashes don't flutter. Green eyes don't waver. What seals the spell is the way her lips part, the pink flesh creased and chapped and illogically alluring. The gravitational pull between them intensifies. She inches closer to him slowly, like she wants him to know that she's on her way, that he's her destination.

Not even his heart thunders. She has a way of quieting him, hollowing out his chest and refilling it at a whim. Wondering how she earned such power, Soul dares to wait, to relax his tensed muscles. Whether or not that's one of the effects of his crush is hard to tell, and he doesn't want to question the moment.

Especially when only a breath exists between them and she’s staring at his lips like they are a lifeline.

Come what may.

She pauses.

He is perfectly still, never one to rush her into something she may not want. Only she breathes, only she can decide where to take this because he's already auctioned his soul to her, unhesitatingly, unconditionally. If for some reason they were to be splintered apart, he would want it to be on her terms. She hasn't even officially started a relationship with Clay and she's already withholding details from him - not that he feels entitled to know everything, but it hurts that she doesn't trust him, her partner since they were eleven.

Sorrow drenches his heart, even the hardest parts to reach. It's not an unfamiliar feeling. It's like when he cracked his eyelids open the first time after the incident in Italy, and he lay in his hospital bed by himself and wondered if his sacrifice had been in vain. But this is different, this is worse: this is saying goodbye without closure, all of his thoughts unsorted and forcibly muted.

Lightheaded, he focuses on her lips. Would it hurt her if he pecked her cheek at least? A kiss at this time would be wrong. Maybe it's inspired by pity, but he has flashbacks of other instances where she has gravitated toward his face with that ambitious gleam in her eyes. She is the calm of nature, and green is all he wants to see.

She rests her forehead on his, and this forces him to breathe again.

“Trust me,” she says, her voice low and scared and beseeching.

Nodding is his only choice. Prying information out of her when she's in distress isn't his style.

“Take care of me?” The way she hesitates wounds Soul - of course he will, when has he not? She's done the same for him. This is how their relationship works: give and take equally.

“I guess,” he mumbles sheepishly, carding a hand through his hair as a distraction. At least his face isn't tinged with the same shade of pink as her cast. A spark of bravery emboldens him to brush back semi-wavy tresses before he can think twice. “You're going to be okay,” he promises.

“Thanks,” she says softly.

He can't reply because his throat closes.

But the next morning, he finds out he’s not the only one enlisted to nurse her back to health. Soul hovers in the hallway and watches through groggy eyes in lowkey disgust as Clay wanders around the kitchen, trying to cook scrambled eggs, doing everything _wrong._ After he offers to do her laundry, her whites become purple and blue, and he manages to lose a sock. Soul yawns while Maka silently seethes, inspecting the damage.

“It's okay,” she reassures through gritted teeth. Soul knows what it's like to be on the receiving end of her wrath - it's like being slapped with coal on sunburned skin. Immaturity almost moves him to complain aloud about how she's treating him too nicely. Why doesn't Clay get a lecture? Where is his chop? Where is his death glare?

The fact that these seem reserved for him makes him feel special, though, so he chooses not to utter a single peep.

Something about their date must have brought them closer. Soul stays in his room, headphones lodged over his ears to drown out the muffled voices and laughter and bouts of yelling. He's haunted by imagining them at the kitchen table, Clay spoon feeding her chicken noodle soup, or turning the pages of her book when she's ready. Every time jealousy reminds Soul that those are _his_ privileges, he hides under his pillow, willing himself to pass out.

Clay is too nice to hate. Around lunch time, he knocks on Soul’s door and asks him to join them.

This is when shit hits the fan and splays out in decorative patterns. The entree is raw fish. Soul is nailed to the floor with shock and fear of Maka's ire.

“I’m going to my room,” she enunciates, and although her words are not sharp, her scowl can cut through skin and bones. She kicks her door shut and leaves the two alone.

“I messed up,” Clay sighs. “She's been mad at me the whole day… ever since our date...”

What is Soul supposed to say? Hell, he's pissed too. _Why is Maka’s arm broken?_ _And her wrist?_ Nightmares featuring her casts have begun to visit him when he does manage to sleep. Worrying is an instinct.

“I just want her to be happy,” Clay continues, looking defeated.

Soul can’t hate him; instead, he hates himself. “Okay, you messed up. You gave her fish, and she’s a big baby when she’s in pain so you just have to deal with it,” he sums up, shrugging to seem nonchalant. If he wanted to be extra cruel, he would tack on to the list of grievances that he’s a little simple headed, boring -- but he can’t discern facts and bias, so he shuts up and decides to be helpful, and he can't stop:

“First of all… Maka likes her toast medium-toasted, and you made it so dark it was practically burned. And she doesn't like that you used vegetable oil instead of butter for the scrambled eggs. That's just stupid. She's a picky eater, in case you haven't noticed. And she's allergic to peanuts. Why would you make her a peanut butter jelly sandwich for a snack?”

They’re all little things that anyone could have forgotten, but it speaks to his relationship with Maka that he knows these idiosyncrasies. He remembers so much about her and this is what makes it a grueling to think about one day not being the main person in her life. Being replaced would crush him but he would suffer in silence.

“I could have killed her,” Clay agonizes. Beads of sweat break out along his hairline. Deciding not to rub it in anymore is both merciful and advantageous because the opportunity is golden to ask _what happened during the date_. Soul is so proud of himself he almost bites himself smiling.

But Clay shakes his head. “Maka told me not to tell anyone.”

Figures. Soul zips his lips shut to hold back swears.

“Anyway, thanks for talking to me, Soul.” If he thinks that a few facts about Maka and a pat on the back will win over Soul's friendship, he thinks too highly of him. “You know her so well.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, longingly, regretfully. “I do.”

The pointers _do_ help out. While providing answers and advice to Clay bumps him up to saint status, it doesn't do anything positive for himself except knowing he did the right thing for Maka. At least he can hold on to that as she proofreads his essays (after forcing him to do them) and stops by his room to say goodnight. She still _needs_ him. He brushes her teeth, ties her pigtails, and literally is her new set of hands.

In a way, they do grow closer. Trust is when she asks him to unclasp her bra so she can shower. Reliance is when he is entrusted with her planner and her laundry, even the delicates. They’re so used to each other’s bodies that this doesn’t cause nearly as much awkwardness as it should. Fantasies about healing her scars with his lips may ambush him, but he promises himself after Clay and Maka’s tenth date that he will lock his feelings away.  

He tries to withdraw, but he can’t. He is tied to her. The more he tries not to think about what the pair might be doing when they're alone, the more Soul withers away, pining silently.

More often than not, Clay is over at the apartment in the evenings, and Soul retreats to the basketball court. The physical exertion almost matches the emotional one.

Mornings become his favorite part of the day. He maintains the honor of styling her hair. It’s one of their alone times that still remains, since Clay drives her to school now, and Maka takes full advantage of this.

“I’m not happy dating Clay,” she confesses to him. Hearing this is akin to swallowing coals. “But I’m also not _unhappy_.”

Unsure how to respond, he gently pulls the bundle of gold hair he’s holding. “I’ve gotten good at braiding, huh?”

“Yeah.” She almost smiles at him in the mirror. It was definitely the wrong thing to say. Though it isn’t audible, Soul can feel her repressing a sigh that says _I knew you wouldn’t want to listen._

She’s disconnecting from him.

But he will try his _damnest_ to reach her. “What’s wrong? Clay’s not the nerdy boyfriend you dreamed about?”

“He’s just… there,” she replies seriously. “We’re doing all the things couples are supposed to do, but I’m not feeling it... I want to be happy, though.”

“That’s fair,” he says, pausing to give her an encouraging nod.

Her stare is steadfast and unyielding, yet her voice is more delicate than healing skin. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

She squeezes her eyes shut, pained, and a whisper between their linked souls shares with him the reason: _him_.

Five minutes later, Clay arrives, and Soul is ready to make himself scarce when he catches part of the conversation:

“Yeah... Soul dressed me and did my hair,” she explains, and maybe Soul’s tone detector is broken because pride shines through her words.

“Uhm,” Clay mumbles, looking between the two nervously. The flames of Hell burn inside Soul - it’s incredibly _messed up_ that he’s enjoying Clay’s discomfort in knowing how intimately their bond runs. “You look even cuter than usual--”

“I look hideous,” Maka corrects shrilly. Maybe it’s too early in the morning, but to Soul, her hair glows in the edging sunlight like barley, and the scars have mostly vanished save for the cheek mark, which will only adds to her exquisite, badass aura.

And there’s certainly nothing unattractive about her soul - she’s tiny, but size does not equal strength. She provides warmth to places he long since deemed untouchable. The space between his body and his soul is full and whole, and he could have lost himself completely if she had not helped equip him with courage. Sometimes he wonders if he feels indebted to her, if he's confusing the knots in his stomach for gratitude.

The fact that he’s head over heels in serious _like_ with her doesn’t bias his judgement, he thinks - but he still has to save face.

“Sure do,” he agrees, drumming his index fingers at the table.

”Uhm,” is all Clay can muster, his puff a cloud of disappointment. _Good_ , Soul thinks, dodging a casted arm. It takes a week’s worth of self-control to not mouth off about how _he’s_ Maka’s weapon.

Then he remembers that Clay is also a weapon, and shuts up.

At school, Soul takes notes for her during class, opens doors, and holds her backpack and lunch tray, using his blade-like teeth to scare people away from the last slice of red velvet cake she has her eye on. Whispers of him acting like a servant reach his ears. He rolls his eyes at them. Maka bumps her cast against his arm sometimes, like she’s trying to hold hands, but then Clay materializes and she disappears with him.

 Soul is a ghost. Losing Maka is worse than being buried alive. Guilt eats him like acid. Everywhere is sore to the touch, and he has to pretend to be happy for Maka, who pretends to be happy, too.

She talks about her papa a lot more now when they’re studying at the library:

“He's a dirty cheater, but that doesn't mean I am, too, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Papa says he loves my mama still, but he dates other women anyway.”

“I don't think that's for us to understand.”

But Maka doesn't like hearing this, not at all. Her confusion is devouring her sanity. “What if it’s the opposite, though? Is having feelings for someone else cheating on your partner?” she asks him quietly, no louder than the sound of his pencil tip traveling across paper.

He doesn’t know; he _burns_ to know which partner she’s talking about.

“Is kissing supposed to feel good?”

He doesn’t know; he wants to find out.

“Am I a bad person?”

He does know. “You are not your parents. You’re Maka,” is all he says, and she stares at him for the rest of the night, like she’s seeing clearly.

The future is _frightening_ . Soul isn’t one to chase _anything_ , especially if they want to be gone, so he curls Maka’s hair again the night that she dresses up formally for a dinner date with Clay. Numbing his feelings isn’t working - he feels his heart actively breaking, and not even the sight of Maka’s stupid cast cajoles his angst.

He just wants to get over her, to hack away their roots and detach himself from her, but he _can’t_.

“My mama left my papa when she had enough of his cheating,” she says. He doesn’t tell her that he already knows, that he remembers her tears, too. But she is dry-eyed. “I wonder how long it will be until that happens to me.”

“Maka,” Soul starts, but can’t finish. She’s lost in her own introspection. Useless to comfort her, he finishes her hair and sees her off when Clay arrives.

“Remember that you can get arrested for public indecency like kissing and doing stuff naked.”

“ _Soul_!”

“Don’t worry,” he grins, and he wonders if he has accidentally cut the inside of his mouth with his teeth - he feels like he’s dying. “I’m kidding. I would bail you out, though.”

Nothing about Clay’s neatly pressed suit or grin warns Soul that something is amiss, but when Maka arrives home less than two hours later, his stomach drops like it’s been pushed off the tallest building in the world. She pads around the apartment and spends an hour in the shower and finally heads to his room.

Bundles of clumped, wet hair dangles into view at his doorway, followed by green.

“Hey,” she whispers.

He coughs. Since she's been allotting so much time to her boyfriend, he's had no one to talk to, so his voice is out of practice and dry and grainy, like it's clogged up with sand. “Hey.”

She's never been one to beat around the bush. Eloquence is one of her gifts thanks to her massive vocabulary, but she's an expert at using small words to convey the indescribable. “I miss you.”

“Me too,” he breathes. To add on that he imagined that she didn't notice their drifting apart would be cruel. His unrequited feelings for her are not her problem, but his and only his, even though he can't find the switch to turn off the crush. It's short circuiting, frying all the nerves leading to his brain, and that must be why he's stuck. She must have been the last thing on his mind when it happened, and her presence in his thoughts is growing, flourishing and adding color to dark places he feared.

Nothing hurts him more than to know that their partnership will expire eventually, but at least he can enjoy her company.

“Can I come in?”

“You don't have to ask,” he reminds. Have they grown away from each other that much?

Bare feet pad across the tiled floor, red toenails (that he painted) matching her robe. She summons both melancholy and an overwhelming surge of _want_.

“How are you lately? You've been helping me out so much and I haven't even asked you...”

Screaming would be an inappropriate way to answer, so he relies on a trademark shrug. She's not the only one who's blocked herself away. Their resonance is suffering for it.

“You're quiet lately,” she continues.

“So are you.”

“I've been doing a lot of thinking.”

“Me too.”

“I just wanted to say goodnight,” she says, turning away.

Regret stings. Of course he doesn’t want to get over her. He can’t push her away. He takes the bait: “What did you want to tell me?”

She glances at him in her way out the door, shrugging like it’s nothing. Distantly, Soul is touched that she’s picking up his mannerisms. The last he sees of her is her robe dancing around her knees as she slips away. “Clay broke up with me.”

“Oh.”


	3. Know

"Soul, do you believe in soulmates?"

They're stretched out on a blanket on their apartment's rooftop, both wishing the city lights were dimmer so that they don't have to pretend to see stars. Fragile silence and a sliver of space in their soul link separates them. Static vibrates just under the surface of his skin, kindled by having her within holding distance.

Her voice is unsure when he doesn't reply right away. "Well… Do you?"

"Yeah," he confesses, clearing his throat, overcome with flashbacks of their past resonances. Nostalgia spreads like sunlight in the cave that is his chest.

"Oh," Maka breathes. In the periphery of his vision, he sees her twitch and try to fold her casted arms underneath her head.

"Here…" He sticks his forearm out. "Use me as a pillow."

She turns to face him for the first time in the two weeks they've danced around the each other, awkward and brimming with questions. Green eyes gleam in the half-shadows of the night. Surprise waterpaints over her features momentarily and then fades as she thanks him with a small smile, shimmying over to plop her head down.

This doesn't fix the misalignment of their souls, but it does sate their need for physical contact.

"What about you? Do you believe in soulmates?" he prompts, eyes trailing a blinking light in the charcoal, cloudless sky.

She takes a long breath: "Not really..."

 _Oh_. That stings more than lightning slicing through his muscles. Sure, he's come to terms with the fact that he is a collection of soft spots when it comes to Maka. He has below zero shame about this characteristic, but it's impossible not to feel like a tree being taken down by a sharp ax at hearing her revelation.

It slips out before he can censor himself: "What about you and me, then?"

Tilting her chin to look at him initiates another test of wills, and this time he's ready. Maybe it has to do with their proximity. She still smells of daydream-invoking vanilla, and even though she hasn't asked for help styling her hair, it's still satiny soft as it cascades over the skin of his inner arm. There's nothing different about how she feels - and yet their link pauses and skips and hiccups.

Their connection is deteriorating, and he can feel her drifting away like a glass bottle being reeled into sea by slow waves. She has traveled too deeply into her thoughts and he's tormented by the fear that she won't be able to find her way back. By the look of the crease between her eyebrows, she's overthought one too many times.

All he wants to do is press his forehead against hers and adopt some of her burdens.

She breaks first. Pale eyelashes flutter, startled, confused. It's the only time he's won and this isn't how he envisioned his first victory in their staring matches. Confusion fills the spaces between each of her syllables: "Us? What do you mean?"

Spelling out the meaning of their souls fusing so _easily_ daunts him, not because of the implications, but because she may not feel the same way. Maybe he's misinterpreting their bond? Just because she's let him peek into the danky, cobweb littered corners of her soul doesn't mean he's earned a more permanent role in her life. What if he is merely a holding place for someone - anyone - better?

He swallows thickly, throat raw. "I mean…" Breathing rattles his ribs. "We're connected."

"I know," she says, and the fire in his blood persuades him to believe her. "We're partners."

"Yeah, so…" Does he have to say it aloud? Stringing words into a coherent sentence is not his forte. In fact, there was never a flashpoint when he realized his feelings for his meister extended past the platonic threshold. There was never a precise pinpoint in time where he thought " _I'm a goner_ ", which leads him to believe that the feelings existed within him and were gently stirred awake over the years. To think that it might not be the same case for her stings worse than a sword to the chest.

He wants to carry more meaning for her than a _weapon_.

They're not understanding each other; this is clear by the way she doesn't answer immediately.

"So we're soul mates," he finishes weakly.

"But _why_? How can you be sure?"

Questioning the fact has never occurred to him because it doesn't have a straightforward answer of the kind Maka is used to in her studies. He's accepted his fate to admire Maka with knee-wobbling fervor. Some would say that it's his weakness, but he considers it one of his strengths, a source of his motivation to strive for improvement. After all, how can he be the weapon of a formidable meister if they're not equals?

"Love is something that doesn't make sense to me," she goes on. "Like, my papa says he still loves my mama, but he's always flirting with other women… How can I believe in something like soulmates when it didn't even work out for my parents?"

For what seems like the millionth time since he's known Maka, he has to quell the need to find Spirit and punch him straight in the throat. Pieces of the puzzle begin to fit together. It makes sense that her father's actions have tainted her perception of the word; she's witnessed the results of his infidelity firsthand. Many examples of loyalty exist around her - Stein and Marie, Sid and Nygus, _the two of them_ \- but none of these relationships have healed her wounds.

"I think people feel love differently," he begins, wedging his free arm beneath his head. Sarcasm threatens to poke through because the conversation is too serious, but he stifles it. "And they do different things. Like, uh… your dad probably does love your mom. When he talks to the other women, he probably doesn't want any romance, just, uh…"

"Gross," she mutters darkly, catching his drift. "I don't understand why he's like that."

"I bet even he doesn't know…"

"But does that mean… Okay, have you heard that saying that goes 'you end up being your parents'?"

 _Oh._ The pieces keep fitting together. He turns his head and he's fascinated. The dim light curves over her nose and adds a mystic smolder to her contemplative expression. She's staring into the night sky, he's staring at her, and a faraway voice that wonders if he'll always be on the sidelines.

"I think I've heard that once or twice - but that doesn't mean you're going to be like your parents. It's not guaranteed."

"Yeah, but…" She coughs. "I feel like I cheated on Clay because… ahh..."

They're stumbling through this conversation, but she's opening up to him and he feels honored and privileged to know what's going on in her overworked mind. It empties his self-control reservoir to resist scowling at Clay's name, who sometimes stares at Maka _too_ long when the pair runs into him at the library. According to her, their breakup was amicable, and she had just nodded in agreement and walked home after he ended the relationship.

She wasn't too cut up over the whole ordeal.

Clay, however, dragged his feet over one evening to where Soul and Maka were settled with their highlighted notes while she ran to the vending machine, sighing dejectedly, "You're a lucky guy."

"I think I have feelings for someone else," she confesses, and tacks on before he can process the information: "Do you believe in forever?"

"Uhm… I think so," he answers, squinting at the passing twinkle of airplane lights crossing the sky. "Wait - so who do you, uhh, who's the person you like?"

No amount of bravery in the universe would prevent the knot from tightening in his throat like a noose. Maka's feelings aren't his to control, of course, so he can't expect her to take into account that her revelation summons pain worse than a fifty foot drop off a steep cliff, especially since he hasn't voiced his feelings. Should he keep them sealed, suppressed?

Someone is blessed enough to be the recipient of her affections, and even though it will invoke flesh-tearing levels of misery, he needs to know _who this other person is._

Maybe he's a masochist.

She encourages this tendency of his by ignoring his question.

"I don't believe in forever, because I haven't seen anyone make it," she says, and it's obvious that she has been drawing conclusions from her parents' relationship.

"Forever is a long, long time," he reasons. The irony that he's playing the role of the optimist doesn't escape him.

"What if it's _too_ long?"

If he could supply her with answers, he would go to Hell and back, but all he can do is reassure her that she's the epitome of goodness and deserves happiness, whatever that may look like. He'll eventually have to feign courage and put on his happy mask when she replaces Clay with someone else, but he's her best friend and he's trying to soothe her doubts.

Who else is there in her life? Will there be enough room for him? Is he selfish for wanting to keep a place in her heart?

"I _do_ think there are different types of soulmates," she explains. "Uhm, like there are best friends, partners, and those I think can last forever. But I don't know about… the type that kiss."

Seeing Maka struggle through her confusion causes him second-hand pain, the kind that lingers and haunts like a bruise. Deciding which part of that is due to resonance and which he can attribute to crippling self-doubt is impossible. "You mean like, romantic partners?"

"Yes. But I don't get it... How does anyone know if they've found the right one? How would _I_ know?"

Tucking her bottom lip between her teeth, she looks at him expectantly, and once again he fails her because he's inexplicably mute.

"Uhhm.. I guess that's why you have to try dating, like you said about Clay…"

"That was weird, though. We got off to an awkward start and then all of a sudden it got better."

"Guess my tips helped," he notes, bitterness seeping through.

She sits up so quickly that she wobbles unsteadily, only gaining her composure to shoot an angry glare at him. "Is that why we were getting along better? Because of you?"

Apparently this was the wrong thing to do. _Ugh_. And to think they were almost synced emotionally, that they were _almost_ on the same page. "Yeah, but-"

She's a firecracker going off in the calm of the night: "You're not supposed to coach him through the things I like!"

"What was I supposed to do?" Propping himself up on his elbow makes her eyes widen and then narrow - she takes it as a sign of hostility, when in actuality he just wants to retreat inside before they argue. "He asked me! And you were miserable-"

"How I feel is none of your business-"

" _You_ don't even know how you feel," he points out in a mumble, but Maka hears all and she erupts, red-faced and trembling.

"I'M DONE TALKING TO YOU!" she shouts, voice cracking like floorboards under too much pressure. Tears betray the fury emanating from her posture - spine straight, shoulders tense, chin quivering. She's a portrait of heartbreak.

"Okay. We can talk later," he reassures, careful to portray his patience. A conversation about their relationship wouldn't be appropriate while they're both clearly under stress. Maka's his first priority. Of course, it's a fact that she's anything but fragile, but he also knows the dangers of pursuing a conversation she insists on stopping.

She can't keep herself from talking: "I'm just so - so _angry_ because you didn't even try to talk me out of this stupid idea-"

This causes his defense mechanisms to flare up. He glowers. "I couldn't! You would get mad."

"And you weren't even _jealous_ ," she spews. "You just curled my hair and let me go on that stupid date-"

"Even if I tried to get you to bail on Clay you wouldn't have listened."

"-And I was so unhappy and you just let it happen!"

He's fragile, even if he doesn't wear a 'handle with care' sign. "Why is this _my_ fault? What does it matter if I was jealous or not?"

"BECAUSE-" She slaps a casted hand over her mouth.

He starts, but realization snaps him into unbelieving serenity. _He's_ not the one she's angry with; she's looking for someone to pin this mess on. False hopes plant themselves in his chest like seeds, but will they grow into something real? Did she mean to imply...? "Maka, you're trying to blame me for this. Why?"

She practically breathes fire. "Because Clay didn't get me at _all_! He wasn't like you! I wished he was more like you and that's your fault! It's your fault that I like you!"

Electricity shoots up and down his spine, tickling his toes. His brain screams that he's not good enough for her while also shrieking that _he is good enough_. Somewhere in the midst of all this mental chaos he understands her logic. They've stuck alongside one another for so long that knowing each other is an instinct. Getting to know someone else sounds like an impossible task.

Does she resent their partnership? Is it an obstacle to her happiness?

He's hurting but he's grinning because _she likes him too_. "...I was jealous, you know. Because uhm… I do believe in soulmates, and I think you're _my_ soul mate, in the more-than-friends kinda way."

Honesty is the key to calming her down. She lowers her hand (maybe later he'll laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but right now he's flat-lining.) "Really? You think _I'm_ your soulmate?"

She's so astonished and he's shaking; he wants to be held by her, not pushed away. Comprehension creeps up to the forefront of his rational thoughts. Gluing together the clues both alleviates his worries and nurtures more guilt. The reason behind their fading soul link is clearer.

"Yeah, but you're scared that we could more than one kind of soul mate," he says slowly. "And you're scared because I, uh… _likeyoutoo_."

She chokes. "Do you really?"

"Death, yes, Maka."

Reaching out, she clutches at his shirt, nails scraping him through the fabric. "Are you sure?"

There is nothing to wipe his tears away, so he digs the heel of his palm into his eye sockets until it hurts. "Yeah, I do. I thought it was obvious… But I understand if you don't want us to be together. Because we'd be… Just like your parents."

Her voice is the silence between clashes of thunder. "And nothing lasts forever…"

"Sorry," he mumbles, sniffling, desperate to put himself together. Why does he always have to be a source of her suffering?

"No, I meant… Soul, just look at me."

When he does, he's reminded of why he loves her _so much_.

"I didn't mean I was afraid of _you_ …"

How acceptable would it be to sob? He needs to be cleansed of all the emotions ricocheting around in his body, denting and chipping away at him. "I just don't know what you want."

" _You_... But I always told myself you and I can't date." She fights for her breath as she whispers these reminders to herself - the way her eyes mist over and don't see him is his worst nightmare. "You're my _weapon_. But I trust you so so _so_ much. I do want to try dating… but what if it ruins everything? I don't know what to do."

To say that it feels like he's invisible to her would be denial at the unhealthiest of levels. Why is he so useless to comfort her, to provide answers? He doesn't want to guilt her into dating him. Silence is his go-to response. He won't rush her into anything, he won't rush her into anything, _he won't rush her into anything._

"Okay but…" She scrunches her nose, falling silent for the longest minute of Soul's life, analyzing their conversation up until now. By the time she speaks again, he has safely stowed away his tears. "...Why did you help me date Clay?"

"Because if I screwed up your dates it wouldn't be fair to you. And I could never forgive myself."

She sighs, both relieved and exasperated. "Why do you have to be such a good person? Why can't you act like a real jerk once in a while?"

"I hate Clay," he reassures.

She gives him a serious look. "Do you want to know how I broke my arm?"

Willing himself to numb the ache spreading outward from his chest, he nods only once. It's enough for Maka.

"We were sitting in Clay's car talking, at Vista Point - I _know_ that's a makeout place, I know, Soul! So I shouldn't have been so surprised when he leaned close to my face and tried to kiss me, but I panicked and I practically broke the door of his car trying to get away-"

So many questions whirl in his head, but she's on a roll and interrupting her rant would be akin to telling her to shut up. He quietly rubs where she unintentionally scratched him.

"-And he got out of the car, saying that he was sorry, but he was coming toward me and I got scared and climbed up a tree."

"And you fell out of the tree," he finishes for her, amazed and horrified. It's incredible that when Maka is involved, he's able to feel so many emotions all at once when he is so calibrated to repress everything.

"I tried to catch myself-"

"You're supposed to tuck and roll and keep your head up," he scolds automatically, then backtracks and says, "I mean, I'm glad it wasn't worse… at least you didn't need surgery."

It's not that she ignores him; it's that she's pouring out her worries and she can't stop: "But then I felt bad about not wanting to kiss him, because I do like him, he's nice! It just got away from me…" A mixture of regret and shame pulls at her face like she's tasting something sour. "I didn't want to kiss _him_. I realized that I wanted to kiss _you._ "

This can't be real. Even if she had confessed a few moments ago, the leap from her liking him to her possibly wanting to kiss him is still one that melts his brain. He breathes out, "Really?"

Half-way through a sigh, she flinches in pain, eyelids snapping shut. "Ah-huh. At first I thought I was just curious, because, I mean, it's only natural that I want to kiss you, since we're always resonating..."

Soul is an empty vessel. Nobody had ever warned him that caring about someone so much could hurt them. He took a sword to the chest; she broke a few bones because of him. But does she think she's confusing their partnership for something deeper? Does she feel obligated to have feelings for him because of resonance? He has a tendency to worry, so tries to soften the blow by telling himself that it's _okay,_ he's going to be _okay_ even if Maka doesn't want to take that extra step.

"We could stop," he offers, and the suggestion itself grinds his heart.

"No, I don't want to stop. I want to be closer to you."

He could cry, but he's not sure why. Because she doesn't want him, or because she does? The stress is killing him. "So... what are we going to do?"

"We need a plan," she says, blinking rapidly, snapping into action mode. This is the Maka he's used to, who faces challenges head on. "We need to kiss."

He's now following her train of thought and he has no objections to her proposal. They need to connect physically. "... When?"

"After I get my casts off and I'm strong enough to wield you again. It has to be perfect because we have to be sure," she continues, "if this kiss doesn't feel good-"

"I'll try my best," he promises, leaning forward in his eagerness.

Distress mars her face and he just wants to tell her to close her eyes and stop thinking. "What if kissing doesn't feel good?"

"We'd still be soulmates, just not the… romantic type."

The whole conversation reeks of ridiculousness. They're high off the thought that they're finally going to close a gap that separates them. Hand in hand, they make their way back to the apartment. The promise of a kiss is something to look forward to, a highlight of his life, and as the days pass when they're eating dinner, he wonders if the conversation ever happened. Nothing changes between them except she hugs him more often, like she's holding on to him.

Like she's saying goodbye.

Soul's most practiced skill is ignoring, so he chooses not to let this kill him.

When Stein removes her cast, Soul's heartbeat triples in speed, and he wonders if he'll even be alive to be kissed. At this rate he'll have run his heart ragged. It's worse when they work out together, because he can't help but think that they're not working on improving any skills they'll use during battle, but on their _resonance_.

They move in sync, and he breaks as quietly as glass when he realizes that she's slowly letting him back in.

He can wait for her; he has nothing but patience.

But nothing goes as planned. It's how they function. They're hanging out in the living room weeks later, each spacing out while doing their own thing, when she looks over at him.

"Okay," she announces, slamming her book shut, mouth set into a straight line. Soul recognizes her fighting face: jaw set tightly, determination fermenting in her petite body, and a fiery stare that quickens his pulse and slows down time. "I can't wait anymore."

"For what?"

She takes a long breath. Her chest visibly rises, and he sees her clench and unclench her fists as she sits up from her armchair, her steps toward him calculated as if she doesn't want to slip through the floor. Anxiety bubbles in the pit of his belly, radiating to the tips of his fingers and toes and even to the thin flesh of his lips. They _know_ what's about to happen.

This isn't how he imagined their first physical connection. Both daydreams and nightmares have revolved around kissing for so long that he's become accustomed to telling himself it won't ever happen. And yet, here he is, waiting for Maka to reach him, taking in the way her half-damp hair falls in clumps around her shoulders. Bunny patterned pajama bottoms swish as she nears him.

Now isn't the time to shush his wants, but for an irrational second he thinks of skirting around her and escaping. This could change everything. The risk of losing her is only heightened if it doesn't work out. He doesn't want to end up like Clay, cast to the side, admiring from a distance.

But if he's learned anything from their partnership, it's that they've always come out of battles stronger and closer. So when she finally reaches him, he's resolved to live in the moment and not back away.

"Okay?" she asks him. It touches him that she's checking in even when he's never seen her more determined.

"I'm good," he reassures.

Her stare is hypnotizing, and soon she's so close that he can see her pores. Their position is uncomfortable and he feels vulnerable, at her mercy, but hasn't it always been this way? He's lounging in the loveseat, buried among the throw pillows, and she rests a hand on either side of his head, looming over him like a canopy.

"Close your eyes?" Her voice falters, but he is at her command.

The waiting game begins.

Not knowing when she's going to swoop in intensifies the exhilaration of the moment. Picturing the situation should induce guffaws but he's a perfect statue, heart set on finally locking lips with Maka Albarn, his best friend.

He can feel her inching closer, the heat radiating off her skin. She's a flame against his lips, hesitant at first and then _smoldering._ Everything Soul's ever felt pales in comparison to _this_ , to physically touching his partner so intimately. He's touched her hands, back, and even legs, but never in this sensual context, never her _lips_.

Death, what should he do with his hands? Before he can poise them on her shoulders, a droplet lands on his face, followed by another. He's absolutely still. Never did he imagine Maka _crying_ during their first kiss, but he'll take what he can get. There is an ache in his chest and he's unsure why - does he know in his heart he isn't good enough, that she'll leave? Does he love her _too_ much?

All too quickly it's over. Maka is gone, a bandaid torn from a wound too early.

Springing off the couch makes his head fuzzy - or was that the kiss? "Wait, Maka-"

It might be desperate of him, but he catches her wrist in the hallway, gently reeling her back.

"Was the kiss that bad?"

"No, I'm just stupid," she sniffles, smiling softly. Thick tears roll down her left cheek, jarred by her hiccups and bursts of embarrassed laughter. Soul catches her hands before she can cover her face, flattening them against his cheeks. "I was afraid for no reason."

"S'okay to be scared," he says.

Standing on her tiptoes to plant a fleeting peck on his forehead, she hums tearily, "I think we should schedule out when we're going to kiss next."

Happiness is strange. It's a glimpse of hope and excitement sprinkled with uncertainty. "So, just to make things clear, you're going to take a chance on me?"

"I have been, ever since we met," she laughs, more tears spilling out. "And we still have a lot of talking to do… Let's not rush."

"Says the girl who literally just ambushed me," he teases, grinning. It feels so good to be genuine.

"I'm still scared," she admits. "Maybe it's the type of fear that won't ever leave."

They hold each other in the hallway until Maka's tears run dry and his lips ache from kissing the top of her head.

"I'm here," he soothes, fingers tangled in her hair. "I can't promise you that it'll be perfect, but I can promise to stay by your side. We'll go slow and steady."

Forever is a long time to spend together, after all.


End file.
